For Ruth and Tom were closer friends now than ever before—­and for years they had been “chummy.”  The adventures which had thrown them so much together in France while Tom was a captain in the American Expeditionary Forces and Ruth was working with the American Red Cross, had welded their confidence in and liking for each other until it seemed that nothing but their youth and Tom’s duties in the army kept them from announcing their engagement.

“Do finish the war quickly, Tom,” she had said to him whimsically, not long before Tom had gone back to France.  “I do not feel as though I could return to college, or write another scenario, or do another single solitary thing until peace is declared.”

“And then?” Tom had asked significantly, and Ruth had given him an understanding smile.

The uncertainty of that time—­the whole nation waited and listened breathlessly for news from abroad—­seemed to Ruth more than she could bear.  She had entered upon this pleasure jaunt to the Wild West Show with the other girls because she knew that anything to take their minds off the more serious thoughts of the war was a good thing.

Now, as she felt herself in peril of being gored by that black bull a tiny thought flashed into her mind: 

“What terrible peril may be facing Tom Cameron at this identical moment?”

When the bull was gone, wounded by that unexpected rifle shot, and her three chums gathered about her, this thought of Tom’s danger was still uppermost in Ruth’s mind.

“Dear me, how silly of me!” she murmured.  “There are lots worse things happening every moment over there than being gored by a bull.”

“What an idea!” ejaculated Helen.  “Are you crazy?  What has that to do with you being pitched over that fence, for instance?”

She glanced at the fence which divided the field in which the automobiles stood from that where the two great tents of the Wild West Show were pitched.  A broad-hatted man was standing at the bars.  He drawled: 

“Gal ain’t hurt none, is she?  That was a close shave—­closer, a pile, than I’d want to have myself.  Some savage critter, that bull.  And if Dakota Joe’s gal wasn’t a crack shot that young lady would sure been throwed higher than Haman.”

Ruth had now struggled to her feet with the aid of Jenny and Mercy.

“Do find out who it was shot the bull!” she cried.

Jennie, although still white-faced, grinned broadly again. “Now who is guilty of the most atrocious slang?  ‘Shot the bull,’ indeed!”

“Thar she is,” answered the broad-hatted man, pointing to a figure approaching the fence.  Helen fairly gasped at sight of her.

“Right out of a Remington black-and-white,” she shrilled in Ruth Fielding’s ear.

The sight actually jolted Ruth’s mind away from the fright which had overwhelmed it.  She stared at the person indicated with growing interest as well as appreciation of the picturesque figure she made.  She was an Indian girl in the gala costume of her tribe, feather head-dress and all.  Or, perhaps, one would better say she was dressed as the white man expects an Indian to dress when on exhibition.